When I Let the Water Take Me
by Saloma-Kiwi
Summary: Everyone must die-this is the only truth. Even heroes one day fall. Twenty deaths and the Afterlife (no, not that one-the permanent one).
1. Kaidan Alenko

His blood was sticky between his fingers, more trickling through with each breath, his hand pressed to his chest. But, collapsed against the bomb, Geth pouring in on all sides, lungs hitching on every inhale, the _Normandy_ sailing away through crystalline skies overhead, Kaidan Alenko never felt more contented. It was the right choice.

He closed his eyes against the hums and whirs of the Geth, the final counts of the timer.

He didn't even hear the detonation.

* * *

Sunlight streaming through his eyelids, water lapping at his legs and chest.

Kaidan sat up slowly, shaking his head, dark hair plastered to his skin, dripping into his eyes, shocked to find that not one part of his body ached. Strange, for an explosion, to say the least. His hand swept through warm sand as he shifted.

To his right: endless waves of brilliant cerulean.

His left: a broad beach, as far as he could see forward and behind, gold and white sand, trees of all kinds beyond.

No sign of life.

As soon as he considered that this was certainly not Virmire, he realized exactly where he was.

Honestly, he thought it would look a little more like Canada in summer, or maybe an endless sky with clouds to sleep on, but the color was right, at least, and he was wearing an open robe not unlike those from the illustrations of a book he'd read long ago about salvation, so—two out of three wasn't bad. Well… he _had_ been under the impression that there would be a few other people here, too, so... two out of four. Ok, two out of _five_—he was thinking something familiar might be more comfortable and found himself suddenly in a favorite Alliance jacket he once owned, and some khaki shorts. It foiled his impression of some kind of dress code.

Maybe all the other people were among the trees, or maybe he was in purgatory. So, two out of—never mind. He opted to stop counting.

Kaidan stood, feeling the sand hot between his toes. There were worse forms of purgatory, he supposed, if that was indeed where he found himself. It didn't quite look like any form of heaven he had ever heard of, you know?

He wondered if people would have to pray him out; it was an old Catholic sentiment his grandmother kept, but he'd never…

_Would his crewmates pray for him?_

Not even a faint breeze stirred the air. Maybe it only seemed there was air because he expected it.

_Williams would._

There was a pain in his chest that felt remarkably like mortal emotion—two out of... damn. He said he wasn't going to do that anymore.

He was glad Shepard went to her. Ashley had a good career started. She'd watch the commander's back.

With nothing else to do, Kaidan walked the beach.

The sun was warm on his head, hair now dry, sand hot beneath his feet, but not unbearable. If it became so, he supposed he could wish up some sandals. Or think up? Imagine? Get a pair, anyway. The breeze off the sea was cool, and Kaidan supposed _that_ only existed because he had questioned its absence earlier. Waves whispered on the shore, but in the distance, the water was flat—eerily so—calm and black and glassy, a slate of onyx beyond the cheerful cerulean waves that brushed his feet. When he had wandered within their reach, he was unsure.

He missed Shepard. He wondered how she and he crew fared, wished he knew what they were doing, if they lived, if their mission had succeeded. With the commander leading there was little they could do _but_ succeed—the cost was what worried him. If Ashley fell after he had…

When had his sacrifice been for her?

Sure, Shepard didn't reciprocate his affections, so no loss there, but… the women had become such fast friends, he couldn't…

_You know it's the right choice, Skipper_.

Oh.

He hadn't reciprocated Ashley's affections, either.

What a mess.

The beach's end never seemed closer as Kaidan walked, though he would pass many variations of shells and pebbles washed up on the shore, a large stone here or there rising out of the white-gold grains—at least he knew that he was not simply passing the same terrain over and over again. But there was not a single other soul, no birds overhead, no insects or crabs scuttling over the sand, no silver fish riding the waves—just the sound of water and a forgiving breeze.

Kaidan's memories kept him company of a hollow sort. Memories of places and people he was now sure he would never see again. Things that would be much easier to forget, to leave the pain behind, to wander without care on the beach, sink into the waves.

He could not. It made him restless under the unmoving sun.

He sat close to the water's edge, eyes avoiding the black seas beyond the cheerful waves. He let them lap at his feet, heels resting on the spongy shoreline.

A pebble, oblong and white caught Kaidan's eye and he picked it up, running his fingers along its surface. It was worn smooth on all sides; it would probably skip well, if he had the mind. A black stripe ran through the white stone, glinting in the sunlight. He held it above his head. He imagined it sailing through the sky, silent among stars.

Kaidan rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head between them. He rubbed the stone in his palm. If he was on the _Normandy _now, he swore he would pay Ashley Williams a visit.

A voice: "Hm. Might get to test those seashells after all."

Kaidan leapt to his feet and rushed down the beach.


	2. Mordin Solus

He rolled with the wave and allowed it to wash him ashore.

Mordin lay on his back a moment, cool water pressing the tail of his coat repeatedly over his legs. Crystalline sky. Brilliant yellow sun. Quite large—not distant as on Sur'Kesh. No clouds. Slight breeze. Cool on wet skin, settling into sopping clothes.

Dead. Not possible to be alive. Could not survive explosion. He had felt the heat scorch his skin. Survival impossible. Resurrection—unlikely.

The salarian sat up, water dripping off his horns, down his forehead, leaving a sticky trail of salt.

Afterlife. Only likely explanation.

It was strange: he had not really believed in one. Not since a very brief study in his youth, but that was short-lived and quite some time ago. It led to a further interest—of no consequence—in culture, though. Served its purpose.

"Usual physics apply," he murmured upon standing. The sand was white, the water a remarkably clear blue—Caribbean, humans might call it. It would be possible to see bottom, if one had a boat. Worthy of further study later, perhaps.

Mordin started up the beach, strides uneven on the sand. He considered removing his boots, only to find they were, quite suddenly, gone. The grains were hot on his soles—pleasant.

"Wore only what I expected," he observed, turning his thoughts to a simple lab coat trimmed in red and black, unarmored. It was so: light on his shoulders, dry, stirring gently in the breeze.

A smile as he bent to pick up a shell, glinting glossy purple in the sun. He turned it in his fingers. The outside was ribbed, black and grey.

He pictured a simple table and the barest equipment on this endless beach. Beakers, acids, heating coil, wooden table (steel would cause unnecessary glare). Four legs, buried in the sand—stable. Petri dishes. Magnifying glass. Microscope.

It was so.

The pleased expression did not fade, and Mordin, Shepard might have observed, was nearly vibrating with excitement.

"Hm. Might get to test those seashells after all."

Mordin began a cheerful hum and focused his attention on the white sands. All manner of pebbles and shells were washed ashore, glinting in the sun. He could properly comb the beach, maybe acquire a few texts on identification—

"Hello! Hello?"

A human raced along the beach, kicking up sand behind him.

"Other souls unexpected."

"Yeah—that's what I thought." The human slowed his approach; surveyed him. Likely not expecting a salarian.

"Alliance." Mordin tilted his head to study the boy: no more than forty, dark hair, bright eyes, nervous hands (often tell for biotics or engineers). Age likely of no consequence here—could be preferred age, rather than age of expiration. Skin—

"Whoa, whoa—slow down!"

"Ah. Speaking aloud. Apologies."

The human offered a hand and a smile. "I'm Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko, Alliance Navy. Or… I _was_. Suppose I'm just Kaidan at this point."

Mordin shook the offered hand. "Served under Commander Shepard on first _Normandy_?"

His eyebrows arched in surprise. "Er, yeah, I—how did you kn—wait. _First Normandy_?"

"Served under Shepard on SR2 on dangerous Collector mission—your name on wall commemorating lost crew. Mordin Solus. Was doctor; served in STG some time—"

"Lost crew! What happened? SR2?" The young man's eyes were shifting, his hands grown furious with questions. "Collectors? How—"

"Permission to test theory." Mordin fixed Kaidan under his dark gaze.

"What?" the human stared, mouth partly open. A bit slow as most humans, even dead.

"Permission to test theory. Would, if successful, be simpler than verbal explanation." Mordin raised a hand, showing his palm. "Requires physical contact."

The human appeared to consider this, brow furrowed, hands clenching and unclenching with nothing to occupy them. "If… it'll be easier."

"Said simpler, not easier." And before Kaidan could take a breath to reply, Mordin pressed his fingers to the human's forehead.

The memories began.

News of destruction of the _Normandy_ SR1. Shepard's death. Mordin could feel this human's heart seize at the news (could be excellent for biological study—clean, clear, brilliant understanding through sensation without mere observation—all other methods obsolete! But, digress.) Mordin's own clinic on Omega. His first glimpse of the commander. Boarding the SR2. Learning of Cerberus' Lazarus Project. Plans of the Collectors. Horizon: rage enters the human's blood at Williams' words, yet heart races with indecision, fear of Shepard, that Williams' accusations carry some weight—Digress. Apologies. The full crew of the SR2. More details of Garrus and Shepard's relationship than prudent; the human is clearly uncomfortable. This is the Afterlife. Should hardly matter. Excuse Alenko's discomfort with details of Suicide Mission. Appreciated—the human breathes relief. Departure from SR2 after incident with Batarian Relay. Re-uniting with Shepard after Reaper strike. A tremor through the human's being with memories of what Mordin knew of Earth's invasion. Understandable. Tuchanka. Genophage. One way to disperse cure. Ends in fire. No regrets.

"Shit." He stumbled, clutched his head with the memory of a headache, for surely there is no pain here.

Mordin gave the human some room.

"So… they're all right?"

He knows whom Kaidan means. "Last I know."

They watch the waves in silence. Sunlight does not glitter on the top of each wave; the cloudless sky and unmoving sun above are unchanging. Perhaps do not exist at all. Perhaps environment is only part of expectations of individual.

"What do you see?" asked Kaidan, eyes still fixed on the water.

"Ocean. Goes on until vision fails to see further." Mordin's coat stirred in the breeze.

"Before it does, though… what color is it?"

Mordin tilted his head to regard the human, but the other did not take his eyes from the distance. "Blue. Clear. Usually indicative of tropical climate."

"Not… black? Off in the distance, a sheet of water like slate—no waves or anything?"

"No. Hmm…" Mordin surveyed the waves, but they remained unchanging. He tapped his fingers on his chin. "Realm of the living, perhaps? Clearly have reservations about life. Me—none such. You—unsettled. Perhaps expect to see bridge to life. Waiting, then. But why should I be here with you? No reservations about death. Felt no need for afterlife, heaven, hell. Cycles. Life and universe in cycles. Waiting? Can there be purpose after death? Many questions." He took a deep breath of the non-air. "Few answers." A smile lit his eyes. "Plenty of time."

Kaidan nodded, his brow furrowed. His blue eyes returned to the sand.

Not for the first time, Mordin wondered what Shepard might have experienced, returning to life, and had many more considerations to make after knowing his own demise. He knew the human considered the same line of questions. The boy slipped a hand into his pocket—clasped something contained therein, and released it.

Kaidan looked up, met Mordin's eyes. "Dr. Solus… will you walk with me for a bit? Maybe I can help you collect some of those shells."

"Mordin—no need for formalities. Quite superfluous, all considered." He met the human's bright eyes. "You find being alone unpleasant."

He sighed. "You could say that. After a while, you start to wonder who you are." He shrugged, eyes focused on some unseen question or trouble. "Maybe we could all use that, but…"

"What color is sand for you?" Mordin gestured ahead, and they fell into step side-by-side, Kaidan's shoulders sloping in relief.

"Gold and white; you?"

"White. Texture?"

"Well, it's not a rocky beach, or I'd have shoes on."

"Still—more data better."

* * *

They find the third some time after, settled on a great, flat stone that lies half-buried in sand. He rests cross-legged, eyes closed, as if he belongs.


	3. Thane Krios

The water consumes him—black, warm—and his first breath is as dry and clear as it never had been in life. The water is encapsulating as the night sky; he swims; it carries him. He follows the current—drawn—borne further and further until he finds the shore.

The sun casts brilliant rays over the black waters of Kalahira.

The grains beneath Thane's feet are fine, soft, white in the evening sun.

A robe, light on his shoulders, flutters about his legs in the breeze. The silken fabric is white—a grateful joy catches in his chest—trimmed in crimson, tied about his waist with a golden cord.

What lies beyond the sand, Thane cannot see. Exploration, his heart tells him, will lead to Irikah, but pale mists, creeping cold, obscure the horizon. Soon; he must yet wait.

And so he shall.

Thane traces the beach, sunlight glinting upon each white grain, until he finds a great, flat stone rising out of the soft sand. He settles on its warm surface, robes settling around him, rasping across the stone. Orange light of the evening sun glints on the black waves, spider-webbing along the surface. He folds his legs, settles, loses himself to Kalahira's black waters, sunlight glistening and crackling in marbled patterns.

The next instance in Thane's awareness is voices in low conversation:

"And the sun still hasn't moved—so…how can time even work? It was... what—three years between our deaths?" Youthful; human intonation.

"Indeed. Still unsure. Many hypotheses. Could be worlds are linked, but time as we know it becomes meaningless on this side. Could be construct of own minds."

Thane opens his eyes, a small smile ready on his lips. "Mysteries of the galaxy and the cycle of existence are not so easily solved, Dr. Solus, even here."

But the sands close to him are barren, empty of life.

Thane waits; they will find him. He exhales, a whisper on the breeze. His robes stir in the hollow winds, evening light filtering through his eyelids, as bright a vision as a candle upon the shrines of the priests, so few now, and far-between in the galaxy. He is comforted by the thought that Kolyat will keep the light alive within him.

Only the breeze mingles with the sound of the endless sea; it envelops him even as the waters had.

"Knew I recognized voice. Thane Krios."

This time, the salarian stands in a lab coat on the white sand, arms and pockets brimming with colorful seashells, an Alliance soldier beside him.

"Dr. Solus—it is good to see you again." He rises, nods. "You have my respect; there are few of us do not know of your final work with the Genophage." He steps off the stone, offering a hand to the human, who accepts with only the barest marvel at his unfamiliar hands. "I am Thane Krios."

"I know." The boy winces. "Er—that is—Mordin showed me—_told_ me—all about—ah—my name is Kaidan Alenko. Former Lieutenant in the Alliance Navy. I served under Shepard, too. Before." He releases Thane's hand, a nervous pull of the mouth, an anxious shift of his feet; shells clink in the pockets of his shorts and jacket.

"I know of you, Lieutenant Alenko; you are missed by your crewmates."

"How are they?"

Thane recognizes the pale shade of desperation that colors Kaidan's words. It is the same that he experienced himself, a bitter taste at being unable to contact Shepard during her incarceration, one that follows and haunts the eyes of all touched by the commander, serving alongside her.

"Exhausted, but unharmed, when last I knew of them. Do not fear for Shepard or any in her care: I succumbed to my disease." True as anything. Yet, deceptive; it seems he is unable to shake the habit.

The human nods, preoccupation coloring his blue gaze.

Thane watches in disciplined stillness. He sees that it is off-putting for the human, and takes care to shift his weight. "I can share with you what I know, but it may not be pleasant."

Kaidan grimaces. "Yeah, I'm aware. No problem." He braces himself as Thane nods, as though expecting a physical touch.

It is not necessary. Thane closes his eyes to brush the human's nervous, fluttering consciousness with his own, allowing them to meld like a drop of water into the surface of a bubble, fluctuating and swirling in the sunlight with an array of color as they meet over a tense surface.

The attack on the Citadel, in great detail; he keeps the final moments of life to himself. Reports of Shepard, knowledge of the Reapers' movements he shares freely. He holds to the perfect imprints of memory that Thane shares—every small change of Shepard's expression, each syllable, every intonation kept as it had been during life. Spectre Williams interests the human; his heart swells with pride and sinks in relief. His relief and swells of joy are more than enough thanks, even if Kaidan finds himself overwhelmed by the experience. Thane draws back gently to seek Mordin and share with him the same.

He meets the salarian as a gentle rain to a running brook, swept along freely, details shared as stones beneath the surface. The scientist's mind fluctuates with concern and then fascination that disappears as quickly as Thane resisters—it is carried away by the current.

Thane draws gently apart, opens his eyes to the evening's orange light, casting shadows across the faces of his companions.

"I'm glad they're all right," is the first thing the human manages.

"As am I," agrees Thane, hands clasped behind his back. "But I believe I interrupted your…?" He nods to the shells in Mordin's arms.

"Ah! Experiments impending. Many seashells here—always thought it would be relaxing work for twilight years. Perhaps will give some clue about material nature of Afterlife. Nature of material in Afterlife? Still theoretical." His eyes glint in reflection of the smile that graces his mouth.

Kaidan shrugs, a sheepish grin showing his teeth. "I'm tagging along for the ride."

"Perhaps you could use one more on your waiting journey?" Thane offers a kind smile, a simple turn of the lips. Neither of them questions his strange turn of phrase; perhaps they recognize that theirs is not a journey that has been put on hold, but one that is a quest of waiting—to wait—awaiting. These things as they are serve as a distraction, a development.

It is only right that Thane join them; three of the crew are together again. They wander without a commander across sands white and gold, gazing over black and cerulean waters, waves creeping up the shore, and alight on a fourth member of their squad.


	4. Legion

**I**—referring to itself this way feels strange and right, water seeping into circuits, synthetic sinew.

**I** has a new appreciation for the sounds and techniques of organic language, for their ability to carry over in an innovative fashion to the language of the Geth.

**I** is Legion; he is an individual. A single soul.

**I**—lonely, strong.

But there—on the edge of sensation, like tiny pinpricks of light, distant, untouchable—but there—_there _—the whole of the Geth; Legion can feel each as individual, as one, as many.

Clear, crystal water, rolling off circuits, synthetic sinew—

Repetition of images and sounds is an effective tool of language and literature, but must not be overused, **I** knows.

There are many definitions of the Afterlife from various organic cultures, and many more within the various cultures of each organic race. This fact makes the existence of an afterlife's odds .5213 to 10; however, the fact that the concept of an afterlife exists across cultures and races at all raises the odds to 3.614 to 5, and the evidence that energy can neither be created nor destroyed makes the theory of a soul (and thus, an afterlife to contain it)—should it be comprised of an energy, continuing to exist after its vessel's death—a likely one, indeed. Geth never truly die, their knowledge and memories stored for the other units, but Legion—**I**—the soul—has not truly died, either.

This place is energy; alive. Materials can be made, transformed—**I **can call on any desired form; it is not unlike the Consensus. The physical realm and the comfort of energy and mathematics have met, and there is a great expanse of sea and sand, should Legion so choose. It seems to be the default setting, so **I** allows it to remain.

As Legion's awareness extends, there is a shift in the field of energy: three other souls are detected, far along this beach.

The thoughts of two individuals can be read even from this distance, channels of energy they are clearly unused to controlling; the third's thoughts can be accessed, if pushed, for the final individual seems to see no need for high defense protocols. Legion does not read them, not without the individuals' consent.

Shepard-Commander believed consent important. Shepard-Commander's judgment is usually sound.

Legion chooses to approach: it is the most effective way to gain access and permissions.

Upon closer examination, the souls have chosen to materialize into physical forms, likely the ones to which they are accustomed: a human, a salarian, a drell. Their verbal communication is a discussion of sea shells—unless this is a metaphor. Metaphors require additional language processors to be active in order to be effectively interpreted, and data of cultural symbols to be openly accessible. It is unlikely the individuals speak in symbols besides the usual syllables inherent in organic language, considering their diverse backgrounds, so Legion does not run the filters.

A facial recognition scan reveals that **I** has seen them before.

"Greetings, Solus-Professor; Krios-Specialist." The souls stop dead in their tracks, body language clearly registering a startled response. "Apologies. I have made you uncomfortable with my sudden appearance." Legion fixes attention on the human. "I do not recognize your form beyond species and that you display Alliance insignia."

The human seems to be malfunctioning: only an unintelligible gurgle issues from its throat.

The salarian is still functional: "Legion! You will forgive—did not expect to see you. Did not expect to be here, myself. Still unsure if actually here, but extensive hallucination better than alternative."

"I am glad to see you, Legion." There is an expression which often detonates happiness on Krios' face, but may sometimes serve for malice. Vocal intonation proves the former more likely. "It seems you finally have an answer for the question of your people."

Legion imitates an organic habit: declining the head for humility or affirmation of another's statement or gesture. "_I_ have a soul."

The human has recovered data and repaired its problem: "You're… a Geth. Geth can't—they don't—"

"So they can, and they do, Mr. Alenko. You should introduce yourself." Krios' words are kind, but his nod is stern.

"I—uh—former Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko, Alliance Navy." He fumbles with his hands a moment, unsure whether to offer a handshake, and eventually just lets both arms fall to his sides.

Legion runs a different scan; he has not seen Alenko-Lieutenant in person, but his image is stored in the SR1research. "You served on the _Normandy_, and died on Virmire before Shepard-Commander's mission against Saren and the Old Machine was complete."

"Yeah—I—but—don't take this the wrong way—"

"What way is that, Alenko-Lieutenant?"

"What?" The human's processors were clearly running behind the normal curve so **I** elects to give him a moment while Solus unabashedly examines Legion's form.

"Very curious. Very curious indeed—how does Afterlife materialize for you?" The salarian extends a hand to prod Legion's arm, only to find that it ghosts right through.

"Apologies." Legion materializes fully, submitting easily to Solus' curious examination; it is clear he and Alenko are the two not yet used to living in a fluid-energy state. "This Afterlife is not unlike the Geth Consensus; materializations are chosen, and everything is moved through streams of energy. Default physical imagery appears to be a beach habitat, devoid of the organic life one might find in the galaxy to populate it."

"But—how—" The human's processing power seems to be impaired.

"I can show you; we can share data simultaneously, if you are open to the method. It is more efficient than verbal communication, and the shape of this environment allows for free flow of energy."

The human appears to process this, brow furrowing: a habit that most humans seem to share. "All right—what the Hell—I think I'm getting used to it."

Legion fixes attention on Solus and Krios. "Will you also partake in sharing data?"

The drell declines his head. "Of course."

The salarian's eyes light with excitement. "Certainly. Will be very interesting. Look forward to exchange. Likely different than between only organic souls. Much data—different perspective."

With consent secured, the effect is instant:

Three lifetimes of memories in a single, brilliant flash, lines of coded energy. Light, sound, science, secrets, shapes, voices, ego, experience, _and_ _so much emotion_.

Emotion cannot be stored as data, but memory of emotion can.

Legion now understands the mystery of "no data available." Lack of data combined with unexplained stimulus equals an emotional state, as close as can be accessed with synthetic experience.

The four are now Aware of one another.

_Holy Hell it's like three more people in my head._

_You can draw your own mind back so that it is not overwhelming for you, Kaidan—focus your energy and regulate it through your body._

_Not that body actually exists. See now it is merely comprised of energy of Afterlife. Very efficient. Bodies only materialized because souls accustomed to physical tether. Free to—_

_Mordin if you keep going like that, I might not have a body in a minute._

_Your memory of being contained in a physical unit will keep you stable, Alenko-Lieutenant._

"Ok, I feel a headache coming on." The human shakes his head, eyes shut. "The Geth are their own race now, Shepard's all right, and the whole galaxy is about to go straight to Hell, is that about it?"

_Correct_.

"Please don't do that."

"Apologies."

"Most incredible!" Mordin bounces on the sand. "Possibilities! So many possibilities!"

"So much for retirement," Thane chuckles.

"Seashells good—will provide stable sample—but so many more channels now to explore!"

Kaidan folds his arms. "Do you think they have a shot with a fleet that size?"

"If everyone holds true," Thane says, looking out across the sea, "I believe they can prevail."

_Bloody fucking Hell God damn it! _

Glances are exchanged.

"Er…" Kaidan shrugs.

"Your senses are now more efficiently aware of the energy as it flows in this realm," Legion explains. "What we have heard is another soul making itself generally aware."

Thane and Mordin exchange a look. "Familiar, yes?"

The drell nods. "Indeed. We should investigate."


	5. Zaeed Massani

He really could have done without the undignified drenching and clumsy tumble onto the shore, sand and water sticking to his armor in ways that'd put your teeth on edge.

Zaeed had survived a lot of shit before, but survival had never looked quite so much like— "Bloody fucking Hell, goddamn it!"

Retirement.

It wasn't the _worst _picture of retirement Zaeed could have concocted (and he had, indeed, considered something like this) of course, but he'd been under the impression that there would be decidedly more booze when he made the switch. He surveyed the empty sands the grey mist beyond, glowing in the noonday sun; yellow sand, coarse dunes. Comfortable living accommodations had been in the retirement plan.

And some sodding whiskey.

The only scenery Zaeed could discern in this landscape was a single palm—the only shade and really the only thing worth looking at beyond the chilly ocean and the annoying surreal mists. He'd rather sit and face the water than contemplate his fucking existence thank you very much. Waste of bloody time. Better to figure out how the hell to make himself comfortable.

The tree offered little shade, and by the time Zaeed reached it, his armor was dry; the encrusted sand came crumbling off in flakes. He turned his back on the glinting mists, faced the wide expanse of the ocean's green and turbulent blue waters. He suspected he'd find some fine cliffs if he kept walking, but for now…

There was a chair beside the palm.

He grunted. "Well, damn."

Now if—

And a cooler full of beer. A handle of whiskey half-buried on the opposite side.

"That's more like it."

Nothing left to do, really, but settle in and get comfortable. Settling down in armor did not bother Zaeed, and though he doubted he'd run into any trouble, it was better to keep it on in his experience. He leaned back and popped the top off one of the lagers. Between the Collectors and the Reapers—

"Ah, Mr. Massani. Hypothesis correct."

"Oh, goddamn it." Zaeed narrowed his eye at the salarian and the three behind him. "And you brought a posse." He leaned back in the chair, took a cool swig. "I'm not sharing."

"Shepard's company just gets stranger—no offense intended."

Zaeed eyed the boy. "Mhm. Another Alliance brat—you must be the one they lost on Virmire."

"How—"

He shrugged. "You learn things when you spend months on a ship waitin' around for a suicide mission. You find things to take your mind off it. That, and Shepard's knack for keeping people alive against all odds, it's not like I had many to remember."

The boy seemed to shake off the revelation and offered a hand. "Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko—former."

Zaeed just raised his bottle. "Zaeed Massani, damn fine mercenary. Kicked Reaper ass until my whole bloody ship got incinerated by one of the bastards."

"And _Normandy?_" asked the Geth—Legion—the commander had been ridiculously fond of the thing.

"Went to Earth last I heard—they were flying in the Crucible with Shepard groundside. Damn Reapers moved the Citadel to Earth's orbit from what I understand, and there was some technical mumbo-jumbo about needin' it in order to fire the Crucible." He shrugged. "My ship was distracting the Reapers with pretty much everybody else. If Shepard ain't here, they probably made it."

"Would you care to share your experiences in our consensus, Massani-Mercenary? Alenko-Lieutenant, Solus-Doctor, and Krios-Assassin have formed a network with me in the meta-physical predispositions of this realm. We would share memories more effectively."

Zaeed squinted at the four and took another swig of his beer. "You'll forgive me if I don't join your touchy-feely party—speech is plenty efficient for me. I'll stand by my organic habits."

The Geth inclined his head. "As you wish, Massani-Mercenary."

"Did bein' an individual really bother you all that much that you needed these three?" He arched a brow, nodding at the mismatched group.

The lieutenant's brow furrowed. "I thought—"

Zaeed shrugged. "I'm not as dumb as I look, boy. If the Geth is here, it's not really connected to the other machines, now is it? Besides—everybody knows about how Shepard got herself two armies for the price of one." Another drink. "They're all like him now—bloody names and everything." The Geth might have looked pleased or happy or something of the kind, but he'd always had trouble being able to tell what the hell it was trying to portray with those head-flaps. "Had to coordinate with a Geth ship, actually, against the Reapers. Captained by a Geth Prime, I think—called itself Touchstone."

"How did events progress?" asked Legion.

He shrugged. "We were doing some damn fancy flying, I'll tell you that. The Geth ship got into a tight place, and I gave the order to draw the Reaper's fire—give 'em time to escape." He finished off another bottle. "Last thing I ever did."

The Geth's head-flaps were twitching again. "Thank you."

Zaeed waved it off. "Stupid-ass move." He reached for another beer.

The drell was looking at him with an eerie gaze—analytic or understanding—but he said nothing, and the five fell to silence.

Zaeed looked them up and down—a ragtag bunch (definitely Shepard's)—the drell in a robe, the lieutenant in a sweatshirt, the salarian in a lab coat, and the Geth still with that damn hole and N7 pauldron. Bloody insane the lot of them. "Well?" he asked, shrugging off the undeniable implication that sprang from the realization that, yes, he was here, too, on a beach after death with this lot.

"Waiting," replied Dr. Solus.

Zaeed finished off the bottle. "Get your own."

The salarian shook his head. "For Shepard. Could have alcohol if desired." He sniffed. "And of better taste."

The mercenary rolled his eye. "Whatever floats your goddamn boat." They were glancing at one another, and Zaeed wondered if they were having a telepathic conversation or some other nonsense. Either way, he was quite finished with the damn looming. "You gonna sit down or not? The shade and the booze is mine, but since it appears we're not going anywhere, have a seat or keep movin'."

Alenko settled on the sand a respectful distance away, just out of reach of the waves sweeping the shore. A laboratory table appeared behind, and Dr. Solus retrieved what seemed to be seashells from the lieutenant. The drell, with a faint smile, settled cross-legged on a blanket. There was some kind of ale in the boy's hand. The Geth stood, unnaturally still, as it had on the _Normandy_.

"Well isn't this a nice tableau," Zaeed grunted. "If Shepard comes along for this, I'm gonna bloody lose it."


	6. Commander Shepard

Her Carnifex is heavier than it has ever been—familiar, comfortable, safe—but it weights her wrist, pulling her arm down against her side.

Shepard is not sure where it all went wrong, and it feels eerily like Alchera—suspended, drifting.

She can't drift now; she must make a choice.

It isn't a choice—it's a gamble. Between blood loss and rage eating at her vision, Shepard doesn't have much faith in her ability to reason at this point. But she doesn't have much choice, either.

Artificial intelligence is capable of deception. Artificial intelligence can lie.

It is her mantra, shambling across the bridge, her Carnifex a real thing, a solid thing clinking against the charred armor seared into her thigh. There should be pain—perhaps the nerves were burned away. Perhaps her cybernetics numbed the area out of some backward mercy, knowing she's in too poor a shape for them to heal her properly, metal and kevlar grafted to her skin.

Maybe she's a walking dead woman; the realization grips her heart in an icy fist as her vision wavers, so much blood gone, a sticky trail behind her. She raises her hand. Her vision trembles, her heart wavers, but her wrist doesn't. _Come back alive_.

We know the risks.

We knew the risks.

She pulls the trigger knowing Garrus won't be able to forgive her.

And if she's wrong, neither will anyone else.

* * *

It turned out to be nothing like Alchera.

* * *

Shepard straddled the line between two conceptions of time during her existence. She was neither a creature of the past, nor the future, though both would affect her actions daily, would influence her decisions. Shepard was, through and through, a creature that lived in the present moment in the purest sense of the word: _now_, suitable for the present tense, but the commander also owned the moment that—in theory—by the time the words were found to begin to describe it, was already in the past; she straddled them both.

Shepard was not simply the present, Shepard was immediacy: the moment a grenade detonated, the second an enemy's breath ceased, the instant a bullet found its mark.

Between the scorching tongues of flame and cool, black, brightest instant of death, she finds the turbulent waters, and is swept under.

There is no time.

Was there ever, living in immediacy?

A wave crashes over her head, sweeps her under, black and icy as the fingers closed around her heart; lonely currents, water sucking at armored limbs, breath held, burning, out of habit.

A blue light filters from above—below—over—under—three—nine—at her six—

Blue light deep into the night cycle, warm breath at her ear, never mind the sharp angles pricking at her side, there's never been a moment when _now_, _here_, seemed so peaceful, so much less immediate. She inhales his scent, gun oil and a dark texture—something like rich soil, leather, the sharp, clean tang of metal.

Water fills her lungs. It does not burn her nose, but chills her throat, presses her chest.

She believes taking on water will make her sink as surely as the hissing oxygen valve brought her form to stillness, dropping into the gravity of a tumultuous atmosphere.

It does.

Her fingers claw desperately, searching for the surface; they curl, twitching in panicked search for a leak behind her helmet. Fingers meet only water; fingers meet only space.

Shepard falls.

* * *

She cannot fall.

She will not fall.

Shepard has never fallen, not when there was a pair of hands to pull her back up, not when she was awake to haul her own ass out of bed, up off the floor, out of the fire.

Hands latch onto her wrists—the sight of Joker and his Avenger causes a breathless grin—she finds her legs and Garrus smiles with a twitch of his mandibles and Legion gives a flutter of glee or relief and it looks like a bad organic habit, but Hell if Shepard's going to tell him that.

A breath of fresh air at the surface, warm and welcome, the cool spray of water on her cheeks.

A warm forehead against hers.

The sky is bright, white-hot, glaring on the sea's surface, glistening in a thousand golden shards.

Rannoch's sun gleams on Tali's face-plate, clutched in her hand, and Shepard sees her friend's face for the first time, bare to the breeze. They want to rest Legion's remains in the soil of the Homeworld, but they allow the Geth to reclaim his hardware, to honor him as they will; Tali and Shepard know their friend is long gone. His body can still serve the Geth—he would wish to help his people, and he can even now.

The Geth give Shepard the fragment of her old armor.

Water presses and drags about her legs. The waves drive, pushing the back of her neck, tugging at the length of russet hair around her shoulders.

Thane asked for guidance, but it is something Shepard never desired. His hands are calm, still, controlled, his eyes swift: they take in every detail. His voice is measured, and Shepard can share in peace for just a moment, sitting across the table, her own hands restless, fingers itching for a trigger.

The breeze chills her forehead, droplets drying, sticky with salt, only to be swept, wet anew with another wave.

On his deathbed, he is the very image of peace, and Shepard's hands still move and shift even as the prayers are read. For an instant, as Thane's breath stills, as Shepard's and Kolyat's voices cease, she can feel the brush of still comfort.

Shepard fights the current; struggle is the only thing she knows.

* * *

The commander has never been swept along easily.

* * *

There is sand between her fingers.

_Would run tests on the seashells_.

Shepard's hands curl into fists, grains compressing against her palms.

The sound of the waves rushing against her legs raises bile.

The water's rush is drowned out by rifle fire and the steady march of Saren's troops. A voice in her ear teeters on desperation—Ashley—ready to face insurmountable odds for their lieutenant, and Shepard knows precisely why, and it goes beyond the simple Marine drill, the driven mantra that a soldier's life is expendable for the cause at the end of the day.

Shepard's decision is wrapped in guilt and she wants nothing more than to see them both at the end of this, together, to board the ship and embrace the two with a laugh and a drink at the end of the day.

But there was only the image of Kaidan beneath the bomb, unable to hear the sound of the sea, pistol clutched in his hand, amp long-since burned out, and Ashley's tears on her shoulder.

The sky is dark, a smattering of stars against a midnight canvas. There is a keyless hum on the wind, and it sounds suspiciously like Gilbert and Sullivan.

* * *

Shepard grieves.

* * *

Beyond the beach, there is a bar; Shepard knows it by the garish neon, offset by a crisply painted sign with neat, beautiful lettering—but she cannot read it. The looping script is strange, unfamiliar, even as the storefront gives a familiar tug at her consciousness: a dark bar at the end of a street, the sort you'd find tucked in an alley. A cheerful spot, a happy medium behind the commercial expenses and the seedy underbelly.

She enters.

It's strange to see Anderson here, age and weight and lines gone from his face, comfortable on a barstool, tankard in hand.

The lights are low, the music is easy. The air is sweet with pipe-smoke and liquor, couples swinging on the dance floor—and it's not forget-my-problems dancing (she takes note of their arms: free, but not frenzied, choreographed like a battlefield; not choreographed, then, but flawlessly improvised), but is instead I've-no-problems dancing, and Shepard is not sure she has seen the like before.

Anderson smiles at the bartender; his hand strays to the back of the stool beside him. A woman perches there: Kahlee. Their fingers meet and twine, an ethereal grace in the shadows, dancing, living things cast by gentle flames.

There is an empty, wooden stool to Anderson's left, but Shepard's feet are stayed at the door.

Not yet.

* * *

The beach is warm with mid-afternoon sun, glinting on lost shells, the sky bathed in gradient blues—pale on the horizon, dark overhead. Voices on the breeze create a pleasant murmur, gentle on her ears over the aggressive rush of the waves.

Shepard's heart stills and drops.

The sight that meets her softens her gaze, eases the tension in her shoulders.

Kaidan—just as she remembers him—reclines, beer in hand, chuckling with crew he never had a chance to fight alongside: Zaeed—when did the old bastard make it out here?—comfortable and toasting something with a full handle of whiskey in the shade of a palm, Thane in a soft robe that suited him well (Hell, the gentle air that took them all in this place suited them better than she might have hoped), cross-legged, gazing across the sea; Legion, expressive as ever, sunlight glinting on the pauldron he 'borrowed'—_no data available_, indeed—and Mordin, busy with his hands as always, mouth pursed, fingers handling samples and containers quick as you please: even death could not slow him. Indeed, death could not dim even one of them.

It is a relief and a curse to see no one else, and Shepard's heart rushes forward to meet them—comrades and family.

But, for the only time in her memory since her mother's cry split her ears, feet stilling in the mud, wrists growing slack, the family's emergency rifle—her father's old Lancer—thumping against her thighs, Shepard is completely frozen, tethered by fear.

* * *

There is one thing she must know first.


End file.
